


Lights Off When They Should Be On

by foundfamilyvevo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2251785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundfamilyvevo/pseuds/foundfamilyvevo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zayn is a city boy and Harry is potentially a scarecrow, and it's the rainiest spring in the history of this village. Or, the story of a family of cats from an outsider's point of view. Or, HAPPY BIRTHDAY B!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Off When They Should Be On

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY B TUMBLR USER LITTLEPETLOUIS, YOU'RE 23! i hope you have a wonderful day, and a wonderful year to come. HUGE shout-out to ameet tumblr user thoughtfullpennies for beta-reading this at incredibly short notice, and for saving me multiple times from the depths of despair, i owe you any pot of gold i might ever find at the end of a rainbow.  
> [see end notes for warnings]

Sometimes Zayn likes to live in some form of poetic denial about his own responses to things, the way that he interacts and the way he expresses his feelings. He likes to think that he can be calm but confrontational, secure and firm, understated and powerful.

In reality, his mum tells him, "We're moving out of the city," and just like that, he shuts down. His emotions ebb away from him, a current leaving him stranded on the beach. One of his sisters starts to throw a fit, but he can't really bring himself to do the same.

Quietly, so quietly that maybe his mum doesn't hear (later he realises that she definitely heard, she's always got one ear trained on him because she knows him and how he speaks and what he needs), he murmurs, "Okay," and goes to listen to Jay-Z in his room.

 

The pain starts to set in over the next few days. At first he tries to go about as if it's not happening. He doesn't tell the Riachs and he doesn't mention it to his teachers at school, and if he appreciates the towering buildings around him a little more then it's probably a separate issue.

 

A few days after, he finds himself angry, locking himself in his room and gripping the covers on his bed until his knuckles turn white. The view out his window is light reflecting off metallic surfaces and he doesn't understand why they'd want to leave, why they're trying to take him away. Sometimes it gets too much, sometimes it feels like his head will implode with the constant _buzzbuzzbuzz_ of movement and energy in the city, but he doesn't know how to live without it, either. He wants to break something, and his arms are trembling. He rolls over and gives a pathetic yell into his pillow before grabbing his phone to call Danny.

 

Zayn starts to go for bike rides every morning, thinking, if I appreciate this place enough I'll get to stay here. He finishes his homework on time and even goes looking around for available jobs. Danny comes with him and looks kind of sad whenever Zayn huffs or ruffles a hand through his hair, and Zayn tries to be patient with him, because maybe if he's patient with Danny, they won't have to go. He loves Danny, he doesn't want to leave Danny behind. Or Ant, or his school, even though it sucks sometimes, or their apartment even though it's small and crowded and too high up. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and thinks to himself, _I can still fix this._

His mum pulls him aside that night and says, "Sweetheart, I think it's going to be okay. I know you don't want to leave, but it'll be better, I promise."

He swallows hard and nods to her, eyes carefully focused on the wall to the left of her head. "Sure, yeah, I get it. G'night."

 

The pain is so acute and fierce it feels like a knife in Zayn's chest. He's sitting at the bus stop and there are people hustling by in both directions, and. This is _home_ and sometimes home is a mess and sometimes home doesn't make sense and sometimes he'd rather be anywhere other than home, but. His throat is all choked and he bows his head a little bit. He's invisible here, amongst the millions of people, and he loves that too. He doesn't want to be obvious; he doesn't want to move somewhere where anyone other than his friends and family and teachers will recognise his face. Everything is crashing down around him and he's trying so hard to be good about it, knows that his dad needs the better work and knows it'll be good for his sisters and knows they'll have a bigger house and his mum will be happier out in the fresh air and the country. So when he has a bit of a cry to himself, knees pulled up to his chest, he feels bad about it.

 

Packing is a damn mess. Everything in the house is in the wrong place and Zayn can't find _anything_ , and he doesn't want to let his mum pry through every single thing in his room but he can't do it all by himself either. He enlists Danny and Ant to come over one day about a week before they leave, even though their tiny apartment is already too cramped as it is. His mum smiles, braindead due to stress, and waves them through. Ant has about eight bags of Dorito chips and Danny has a mix playlist all ready on his phone. "Normally I work out to this," he explains, taking off his coat and handing Zayn his phone. "Figure it should be motivating."

Zayn's going to miss him so much.

They get most of his comic books and superhero paraphernalia packed that day, because Danny and Ant know how special that stuff is; they know how to wrap the Green Lantern figures so their arms won't break and how to seal the comic books in their sleeves so they won't get crinkled or ripped. At about two in the afternoon, Zayn collapses on his bed and they follow him, falling asleep in a big pile of teenage boy that Zayn has to enjoy while it lasts.

 

Moving day arrives. Zayn is up at the crack of dawn with his dad, and they load all their stuff into the moving van - box after box, chairs and couches, their dining table. His mum and the girls are going to drive their car out later, their second-hand car that they've only just bought because they never needed one before.

The loading is done mostly in silence with occasional mumbles of "You got your end?" and "Left a bit". Soon enough, they're ready, piling into the front and heading out onto the road. Even this early it's full of traffic. Zayn doesn't mind the wait and the quiet though. He rests his forehead on the window and watches each of the skyscrapers slide past, like honey from a spoon. He feels like kissing it goodbye.

The drive is long, out of the city. The packed streets turn to suburbs, and the suburbs turn to far-flung houses, and the houses turn to paddocks and small groups of towns, one after another. They pass a lot of sheep on their way; some of them look up, as if asking, what are you doing here? Zayn wants to reply, "No clue, buddy."

In reality, the new house isn't awful. It's bigger than their apartment - two stories tall with a tiny attic, and a square of grass and trees around it, separating it from the neighbouring buildings a little bit. One of the trees in the front is exactly the type Safaa likes to climb, and the window seat on the second floor facing out over the back yard and the paddocks surrounding them will please Walihya, to be sure. Doniya's always wanted to live in the country.

Zayn breathes and tries to think of them as he looks around a new room, empty, his footsteps too loud on the floorboards, echoing into the space and making it feel vast. For a moment he sits, cross-legged, taking it in. His dad is like him, understands him, so he doesn't ask any questions. When Zayn comes back outside, he hands Zayn a box and says, "That's for the kitchen."

 

Moving day feels like it goes on forever except that all of a sudden, Zayn is sitting on his mattress on the floor - his makeshift bed (they've got to set up his bed frame in the morning) - and his bookshelf is up against the wall parallel. Next to it rests his box of comic books, and next to that, his box of figurines, and next to that, his drawers with his few boxes of clothes surrounding it. The place is a mess, but they're there.

They order takeaway and eat it sitting on the floor."Picnic dinner,” are his mum's words. They use disposable plates and cutlery because everything else is still packed.

 

He takes a shower in their new bathroom. It's so strange. The tiles are a different pattern to the ones in the last house and the shower isn't the same shape, the door handle is square instead of round. It has a turning lock instead of a click-down one. By the time he gets to bed, his head is spinning. He texts Danny and tells him it all went okay and, too tired to do anything else, drifts off to sleep.

 

It's the second night when the noise starts to bother him. It takes him hours to get to sleep because of the _silence._ There's a few birds outside his window somewhere, and they're piercing in the otherwise quiet night. He can't take it. Eventually, he gets up, gets his phone, and sets it to play some soft music. It's not the same as the relentless buzz, the constant reassurance of life, but it'll do for now.

 

The next few days are all unpacking and positioning and repositioning furniture and going to the supermarket to buy some seeds for his mum's new garden. (She's so excited to have a garden, it makes Zayn smile).

 

On the fourth day, there's a knock on the door. Zayn's mum quickly asks him, "Do I look okay?" and he gives her a nod and the thumbs up. Her hair is in a bun and she's dressed for cleaning, but she's presentable. She hurries to open it, and he hurries to occupy himself in the kitchen so he's not awkwardly included in conversation.

No such luck. His mum invites whoever it is in and he’s soon forced to meet her. It's another woman, white (Zayn can't believe how many white people there are in this tiny village; he's worried they might be the only Pakistani family around), with a sweet, slightly tired round face. She carries a plate of biscuits.

This does warm him to her somewhat. She introduces herself as Anne. "It's lovely to have a new family in the area," she tells them, "we're always so happy to have newcomers and the old couple who left this house were so nice, we weren't sure who'd show up, you know?"

Zayn figures that only families would really move out to a place like this, but keeps that thought to himself. His mum fusses and thanks Anne for coming over and says she looks forward to getting to know each other, and Anne starts talking about her children. She has a daughter a little older than Zayn, near Doniya's age, so that's good.

"I have a son, too," she adds, as Zayn goes for the stairs. Politely, he stops and listens. "Harry. He'd be about your age, I'd say! You'll meet him around, for sure. You'll get along famously. He's always scouting out new kids in the area."

Zayn puts on a courteous smile. Most people don't get along with him. "I'm sure I will."

 

Once the unpacking is done, he's not sure what else to do. They don't start back at school for a couple of weeks yet because they weren't sure when moving day would be, and he doesn't know what he wants to do.

He starts to go for walks, to familiarise himself with the area. It takes ages to get anywhere; the corner shops are a full ten minute's walk away and there's nothing interesting there and he can't stand it. He supposes he has to get used to it, though, and he likes the scenery. It's just the knowledge that they're more or less stranded, compared to being on top of a bus stop and next to everything he could ever need, that bothers him.

The paddocks are long and sloped and Zayn doesn't really love _nature_ but there's something else he loves – cats. These fields are full of them, if you know where to look. Barn cats bred in the open spaces, natural hunters who are curious of humans. He's identified a black cat who comes out here a lot, and a speckled grey.

He's walking down their street and past some of the paddocks on his way home when he spots a flash of a white tail he hasn't seen before. Immediately he slows his steps, gets down lower, and approaches. It flicks back and forth and then, for a moment, a tiny kitten's head pokes up above the grass, nose twitching. Zayn stands stock still, but no luck – as soon as it sees him it bolts, straight out into the field. Probably back to its mother.

Zayn's heart lifts at the thought of a whole litter, and a mother, maybe even a tomcat. So, with only a little trepidation, he jumps the fence and tries to figure out where the kitten disappeared off to.

It's hard to tell. There's no livestock in this particular area, and the grass is long enough to conceal a small creature like that. In fact, all he can see is a scarecrow, standing slouched, and even that doesn't look in the best sorts, arms down by its sides and its head practically resting on its shoulder. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was sighing.

He only continues so far past the scarecrow, halfway down the hill, before he flumps down in the grass and gives up. There's not even a white hair to guide him in the right direction.

A slow acknowledgement dawns on him, acute and painful, and that is that he hasn't experienced disappointment like this in awhile because he hasn't been this excited for anything since they left the city. It trickles down his spine like shivers, but feels as heavy as sadness.

"Were you looking for the cats?"

Zayn jumps about a foot in the air and whirls around. He thinks for a moment that it was the scarecrow, but he realises it can't be. Because there never was any scarecrow.

Instead, there is (and was) a boy, in a mostly-open flannel shirt and torn up old jeans. His boots are caked in thick layers of mud and he wears an actual farmer's hat on his head. Long brown curls of hair fall to his shoulders, maybe brush his collar bones.

Overall, Zayn can see why he made the mistake. It wasn't that far-fetched an assumption.

"Hi," says the scarecrow – the boy. He has a slow, deep voice and a worried brow. "Sorry if I scared you."

Zayn tries hard not to clam up and also not to say the wrong thing. "That's okay," he mumbles, "uh."

"Were you looking for the cats?"

Tilting his head, Zayn nods. He's not sure if he's supposed to reply to that verbally or not.

The boy's face breaks into a wide grin. "I can show you where they live, if you want."

Being totally honest, Zayn nearly says no. He's never met this boy and he's not particularly keen on spending time with a stranger. That's the type of thing he has to build up energy for. However, he weakens at the sheer enthusiasm on the boy's face. "Okay," he caves in.

The boy grabs his wrist – he has big, tough hands, farm boy hands, but his grip is gentle – and start off down the hill. Right away, Zayn struggles to keep up, because this boy's legs are a lot longer than his own and he was caught quite off guard. When Zayn trips a little and stumbles, pulling them to a stop, his first instinct is to withdraw, to shut down and avoid the hot flush of embarrassment boiling up his neck, but the boy stops and waits for him to get back up. He looks concerned, but not overly so.

"Sorry," says the boy, "I was rushing. I got excited. Are you okay?"

"Fine," Zayn breathes, and the boy nods.

"Okay. No need for me to hurry, though."

From there, they carry on more slowly, the boy carefully watching Zayn's own strides and matching them. For awhile, it's silent.

"You're new to the area?" the boy asks. Actually, it might not be a question; it's kind of hard to tell because he looks and sounds curious about most things, in a sleepy way. It's hard to explain.

"Yeah," Zayn answers. "Moved in a few days ago."

The boy nods, pensive. "Y'been down to the brook yet?"

"No, didn't know there was one. Haven't really been out here with anyone native," Zayn answers. The boy grins, like that was funny, and Zayn's not sure if that's a good thing but he tries not to worry too much.

"You're not in a hurry to get home, right?"

Zayn snorts at that. "Nothing to do there at all."

"Cool, cool." The boy clears his throat, eyes flickering from Zayn's face to his own mud-caked boots. "I could show you around, if you liked."

They haven't even made it to their first destination yet and Zayn's not sure when his mum was expecting him back or what he's going to talk about with this guy he's never met, but he's already nodding his head. The broad smile he gets in response, deep dimples and a straightening of the shoulders, like the boy is more confident from his approval, is worth it.

Winding their way down through the grass and past some sheep (who could not be less fussed about their presence) they reach a small, run-down building, too big to be a shed but almost too small to be a barn. The boy circles around to the back and calls, "Over here!"

Pausing, Zayn takes in the sight a little more as he follows. There are holes in the straw roof but there's no graffiti on the entire structure which is a foreign sight to him. A hole gapes in the back of the building, wooden boards smashed like someone kicked through them. The boy is already partway inside, beckoning to him.

It's dusty and smells like old hay, and Zayn has not ever felt more in the country. He takes a moment to accept that this is actually his life now, and then sees what the boy is pointing to.

There's a ladder, not as rickety as it could be, and coated in dust except for one recent set of handprints. "Go on up," the boy assures him, "I'll follow you."

"Catch me if I fall?" Zayn jokes, swallowing and putting his hands in his pockets. He doesn't do well with heights. He's scared of a lot of things.

The boy laughs. "Sure," he says, "promise."

And, well. Here goes nothing. Zayn grips the boards probably harder than he needs to, and he pulls himself up the first step, and the second. Then he's going, three, four, five, and before he knows it he's collapsing into the loft, getting his breath back. People make climbing ladders look easy, but it's quite strenuous, in his experience.

The loft is far more densely coated in hay than the ground floor, even a few stray bales pressed back in the gap between the wall and the sloped roof. Further over, in a patch of sunlight, he sees –

"Over there," says the boy in a low voice, close to Zayn's ear. Zayn is already looking where he's pointing.

Dozing in the beam of sun, directly under a hole in the roof, there's a tabby mother cat and three kittens – one white, two tabby. They're suckling, but lazily, more out of habit than necessity. They've got to be six weeks old, at least – their ears are all properly unfolded, their eyes wide, plus the white one was so far from home.

Zayn doesn't realise he's making little cooing noises until he gets closer and the boy laughs at him a little bit. "Go on," the boy encourages. "Go ahead, cat whisperer. Amaze me."

Getting down lower, Zayn holds out one hand. At first, the mother cat gives him a scrutinising look. In turn, he gives her a long blink and a head dip, hand still outstretched and not looking up. He waits until she bumps her nose against his knuckles to raise his head again, moving up to scratch her ears and sit down. Shooting a smirk over his shoulder, he sees the boy's expression is one of happy surprise.

"I'm actually amazed," the boy says. "Wow! Wow. I love cats, but I can't do that. You've gotta teach me."

Zayn laughs. "It's not hard, once you know what you're looking for," he says, "come over here."

The boy hesitates, and crawls forward, brow creased as he tries not to make too much noise. Now that he is more in his element, and the boy is out of his own, Zayn feels less shy. "Promise, she won't hurt you," he says as the boy bites his lip. "Close your eyes when she looks at you. That's to show you're not a threat, right? So you show her you're not a threat, then you offer your hand so that she can check you out without feeling in danger. Once she's all good, she'll relax, you'll know."

"Okay," says the boy, and does as Zayn said. Zayn totally sees him trying to peek out through one eye, but closing it immediately when the cat looks up at him. For such a broad-shouldered, deep-voiced guy, he moves like a cartoon character, excitable and exaggerated, a caricature. As a cartoonist, Zayn can appreciate that.

The cat sniffs the boy's hand, rubs her cheek on it, and settles herself back into her place. The boy waits a moment before looking up. His eyes are wide. "Was that good? Does that mean yes?"

Zayn tries not to smile too much. "Yeah, mate, that's a yes. She doesn't mind you."

The boy says, "Yes!" under his breath, and moves to gently brush the ears of one of the kittens. The mother cat keeps an eye on him, but doesn't move to stop him. The kitten wriggles, and the boy makes a soft _awww_ noise that Zayn can identify with.

They sit with the family for what must be at least ten more minutes, alternating between stroking the kittens and the mother until they've jointly put all of them to sleep.

"Both of us are cat whisperers now," whispers the boy, barely moving his lips.

"Guess so," Zayn whispers back, no louder than him, and they smile at each other.

 

The sunshine outside feels too bright when they finally sneak out again. Zayn puts a hand up to shield his eyes, and the boy laughs, says, "Appreciate it while it's here, man, it's barely ever sunny out here. It drizzles about three hundred days a year." 

"No different to where I'm from," Zayn assures him. "But this is _very_ bright. And, like. Nature-y."

"City slicker can't take some fresh air," teases the boy, and Zayn gets a weird jolt in his gut. It might be because he's already hyper-aware of what an outsider he is here, or maybe he simply misses home. Whatever the case, the boy seems to pick up on it, and tries to bolster him back up, says, "So, would you like an exclusive, free, 100% authentic tour of our lovely fields and hidden groves? Or is that too much nature for you?"

Zayn manages a smile at that. "As long as there's some shade somewhere along the way, I'm up for it."

The boy claps his hands together like a three year old. "Great! Okay. Let's go to the brook first."

 

They have to jump a few fences to get where the boy is leading him. Over a particularly tall one, the boy gets to the other side, drops, and offers his hands. Zayn cautiously lifts from the top of the fence, and rests his hands in the boy's. Something about the way his slightly slender fingers are absorbed in the boy's grip makes Zayn's breath catch. He pauses, glances up so their eyes meet. The boy smiles. It's gentler than his grin, warmer. "You're not stuck, are you?" 

"No, no," Zayn says, embarrassed now, and quickly vaults the rest of the way over.

 

A row of trees separates the brook from the rest of the fields and, all jokes aside, Zayn is grateful to be out of the sun. He knows he has good skin, from his dad's side of the family, knows he won't burn too badly even if he's in the sun all day, but that doesn't mean he enjoys the sensation of being roasted. It's coming up to midday now, so the cooler air near the water is a pleasant change. 

The boy flops down on the bank and takes off his boots and socks, then sticks his feet in the flow of the water. He either doesn't notice or doesn't care that the hems of his jeans are being steadily drenched.

"Sit down," he tells Zayn, gesturing with one long arm. "Makes me feel weird if you loom over me."

"You've done it to me all day," Zayn grumbles, and the boy laughs.

"I like you," the boy says, and Zayn doesn't know what to say to that. He smiles, hoping that's answer enough, and it seems to be.

Carefully, Zayn finds a tree-root that doesn't seem too damp or muddy or infested with spiders, and takes off his shoes as well. Unlike the boy, however, he makes sure to roll up his pants before testing the water with his toe. It's a babbling little brook, lively and young, and the water is nice and cool. He sighs as he slides both his feet in and rests back against the tree trunk. The sound of frogs drifts down the bank.

"I always come here on the weekends," the boy yawns, "it's too hot to be anywhere else during spring, you know? And during summer I practically live here."

Seasons here are going to be so weird and so different. Zayn closes his eyes and tries to imagine a summer without the constant blasting air-conditioning making the windows of all the buildings look strange and surreal, both inside and out, knowing that they're basically two different worlds. He can't imagine spring without the park looking different, and winter, god, he has no clue what winter will be like.

"Hey," says the boy, not unkindly. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," says Zayn, "sorry."

"No worries. Penny for your thoughts, though?"

It's difficult to know where to start. "Thinking about, like. How different things are gonna be out here, and stuff."

The boy tongues his cheek and nods slowly, like he's really thinking over what Zayn said. "I bet. I can't imagine living in a city. I mean, I can, but I'm probably imagining it all wrong, you know?"

"Yeah," says Zayn.

"Do you miss it yet?" the boy asks.

"Yeah," says Zayn again, more of an admission than anything else. "I wish I didn't, 'cause my family loves it out here."

"Don't tell yourself how to feel," the boy advises, lying down. He crosses his arms behind his head so that he's facing the top tree branches, the sky. "No point, since you can't change it, you know?"

That makes sense, Zayn supposes. He watches the way the water pushes through and over the reeds near his feet and mulls it over. "I'm sure I'll get used to it, like. I just haven't yet."

"Fair enough, too," the boy says. It's quiet for awhile.

The boy sits up, shakes his long hair out, and pulls his feet out of the brook. "Ready to go on? I should show you the grove a few fields over. It's so cool, it's all these bushes in a circle in the middle of the field. Like a fairy ring? Only, bushes. And after that we should go meet the bull. He's not hostile if he knows you, so you'll be able to go through his paddock when you're walking. And..."

Zayn smiles, nodding along with whatever wild plan the boy is spouting as he puts on his shoes (he's talking about maybe climbing up the ridge next time, and the words _next time_ are exhilarating, make Zayn feel settled and confident in a way he rarely does) and they're off again.

 

They walk for most of the afternoon, and the town is full of hidden nooks and crannies Zayn never would have found wandering by himself. He's dozy by the time they come back up main street, and the boy laughs at his expression. The boy's hair is all in his face, and there's a streak of dirt on his cheek Zayn can't bring himself to mention, and. 

"What's your name?" Zayn asks, realising he hasn't already.

"Harry, Harry Styles," answers the boy, smiling and holding out a hand like they've just met, like they haven't spent all day together. "You?"

"Zayn Malik," Zayn replies, and shakes it. It shouldn't be a rush to shake his hand when they've been touchy all day, but it is nonetheless. The boy's mouth forms a little 'o'.

"Oh man! You're one of the Maliks! My mum was talking about you, your family moved in a few houses from ours, right? Man, we're like, proper neighbours. Same street and everything."

Zayn has trouble keeping up with the sentence when it's so excited and so slow, but he gets it in the end. "That was your mum? Anne?"

The boy, Harry, blushes. "She probably brought you something she baked, right? She's really traditional like that. I swear to god, if she could make friends with every leaf on every tree, she'd do it, and ask every single one of them how their day was on her way past."

Zayn can kind of see where Harry got his friendliness from. "Well," he says, "it's nice to meet you, Harry."

"You too, Zayn," says Harry, and his mouth shapes Zayn's name nicely, kindly, not like it's foreign or weird or something his tongue struggles to get around. "I expect we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

"I s'pose so," says Zayn, and does his best not to seem too happy about it.

 

He doesn't have to wait too long to see Harry again. The next day, he gets up and ready at the relatively spritely hour of 10 AM, eats a small breakfast of two bowls of leftover rice curry from the night before last, and heads out. There's a slightly nervous spring in his step, and he keeps telling himself he'd be out here even if he hadn't met Harry, that Harry's not the reason he's out having a walk because he was already going to do that, and if Harry isn't out here he won't be let down because Harry could be anywhere in the town at any given moment. 

Harry isn't in the field. Zayn tells himself he's not disappointed, and decides to go see the cats. It's cloudy today, not a real spring day like yesterday was, but it's still hot, and humid, too, boding of rain, maybe even a storm. It's awful. Zayn finds himself swiping sweat from his brow by the time he gets down to the shed-barn.

Once inside, he takes a moment to adjust to the patchy light, and climbs the ladder. It's only as he reaches the top rung of it that he realises he's not alone there.

Harry is lain on his stomach, which is probably why Zayn didn't see him from the ground, cooing and clucking his tongue. The mother cat keeps hissing when he gets his hand anywhere near her or the kittens.

Zayn is torn between continuing up and retreating away. He wants to go up, he knows he does, but he's not sure if Harry wants to spend more time with him and he doesn't want to obligate him if it's going to make things awkward. On the other hand, he doesn't know how he'd get away without being noticed.

Either way becomes irrelevant because as he shifts on the rung and looks down, Harry moves, shifts to see him. Zayn grits his teeth, trying to settle his expression into indifference, but Harry beams at him, huge and genuinely pleased, and he can't help but break and smile back.

"Hi," breathes Harry. "I thought I could cat whisper now, but I can't even cat shout."

Laughing and pulling himself up next to Harry, Zayn leans down to murmur into his ear so the cat doesn't hear. "Are you doing what I told you to?"

Harry clears his throat, eyes glittering and not quite aimed at Zayn, and pouts. "Yeah, but it's not _working._ It _worked_ yesterday."

Zayn huffs, and Harry squirms, covers his ear with one hand and bats at Zayn with the other, giggling. Zayn pushes him back, too gentle, because apparently he can't be rough with this guy who's twice his size. "Okay, god, let me try. You're obviously not doing it right."

 

They spend most of the day up there. Harry asks about Zayn's family and Zayn tells him. He worries that his sentences are halting or too long, disconnected or too rambly, but Harry doesn't seem to notice, nodding and responding to every piece of information with another question. He's always in a rush to learn more, always wanting to _know_ , and it's such a strong contrast with his slow voice and droopy eyes that Zayn doesn't know what to make of it. 

Parting that afternoon is nice, in a way, because they know they're going to see each other again. Zayn always needs time to recharge, time to be by himself, but he's not dreading any more human contact, which he normally would be after such a long time together. They speedwalk home to avoid getting wet but the rain holds off (just for them, it feels). They say goodbye at the start of their street and Zayn goes inside feeling happy and a little breathless.

 

That night, though, he tosses and turns. The sounds of the outside are bothering him, no matter how tightly he closes his window or how much music he tries to listen to. It's humid, too, sticky and gross, and he must sweat right through his bedsheets.

As a result, he reaches the morning having barely slept. His eyes sting and his lower lip feels shaky. He doesn't let it deter him.

 

The day starts mostly the same as the one previous; Harry and Zayn meet at the barn in the morning and go up the ladder to see the cats. Somewhere towards midday, it finally starts to rain, breaking the humidity. They and the family of cats move away from the holes in the roof and curl up in between the messy hay bales at the back. It's a confined space to stay dry, and Zayn's head sort of ends up on Harry's shoulder, his right hip pressed to Harry's left, and he finds he doesn't mind it.

Harry gets out his phone and plays Zayn a bunch of songs which are basically sad white boys singing about misfortune with acoustic guitars. Zayn wants to cringe, but the look on Harry's face is so serious, and so all he can do in the end is smile, say, "Okay," even if he is rolling his eyes. Before he knows it, he's yawning, he's settling back further against the hay, and with Harry's indie folk playing through tiny phone speakers and rain pattering on the old roof as a soothing soundtrack, Zayn lets his eyes slip closed.

 

The next time they open is much later; Zayn can tell by where the light falls, by how the air smells (although it can be hard to tell over all that hay). He has a kitten asleep on his hip, tiny ribcage rising and falling with its breaths, and he's curled into a warm, long side. It takes him a moment to remember where he is.

"Hi," says Harry's voice. It sounds dopey and amused.

"Mm," Zayn answers, tucking his head back under Harry's arm. It takes him a moment to collect enough coherent thought to say anything. "'S the time?"

"Uh, hang on." Harry adjusts, moves his arm from around Zayn to reach for his phone, and Zayn grunts unhappily. He's so _sleepy._ "About four. We should probably go home."

"Yeah," breathes Zayn, already relaxing again. They really, really should go home. Only, he's incredibly comfortable, and tired. And he feels like he's known Harry forever, like they could have been kindergarten playmates, and yeah, he's going to go back to sleep.

Harry shakes him gently by the shoulder. "Zayyyn," he whines, nuzzling his mop of hair into Zayn's neck. " _Za-ayn._ "

"Harryyy," Zayn mutters back, pressing his hands to his eyes until he sees fireworks. "It's _raining._ "

"It's not!" Harry argues. "But it might start again, which is why we have to go now."

It takes Harry (after carefully moving the small kitten off Zayn and safely into the hay near its mother) physically dragging him to the ladder to convince him to move at last and, even once he's down, he's not happy about it.

"Okay, wait," says Harry, and walks towards him. Zayn quickly stumbles away until his back hits the ladder.

"What?"

"Climb up," says Harry, and crouches down.

Frowning, Zayn rubs his eye. "Think I'm still sleepy, but, like. I don't know what you mean."

"I'm gonna carry you."

"That's ridicu-" Zayn begins, but with a grunt, Harry grabs Zayn's thighs and pulls him up into a piggyback, and oh god, Zayn grabs on around his shoulders for dear life. "Harry! Holy – what are you doin'?"

"I'm carrying you," Harry repeats firmly, adjusting his grip around Zayn's thighs. "You go straight back to sleep."

Zayn's heart is pounding and he's wide-eyed. "Don't know if I'll ever sleep again, after that."

Harry laughs, the type of laugh where Zayn knows he's smiling and genuine and dimply. "I'm sure you will."

 

Harry's right. They're halfway home and it's starting to drizzle again, and Zayn's basically about to doze off.

"You alright up there?" Harry asks, leaning forward to bump Zayn higher up. "You're becoming a bit of a sack of potatoes."

"Sorry," Zayn mumbles. His head is all foggy. He's trying really hard, but he needs his sleep, and when he hasn't had it, he turns into some form of zombie.

"Don't be sorry," says Harry, gently, turning his head to bump his nose on Zayn's cheek. "Don't listen to me, either."

Harry is so warm, even as they're getting wetter and wetter, and Zayn clings to him more tightly. He knows that he should be mortified, he should be preparing to never look Harry in the eye again, but something about this is different. Harry genuinely doesn't mind, Zayn is genuinely comfortable – it's a weird dynamic, not one he's sure he's had before.

 

When he next wakes, it's because all of a sudden it's proper pouring, and Harry is laughing and shouting, letting him down and yelling, "RUN, C'MON! RUN RUN RUN!" and Zayn is still waking up but he stumbles, catches himself. Harry grabs his hand and they sprint, they run for dear life through the onslaught. Zayn's pretty sure he hears thunder in the distance. They dash down their street – the water sprays up behind them and in front of them like they're running through a river and even that can't make them wetter than they already are – and they launch themselves onto Zayn's doorstep, pressed tight together under the overhang.

Harry is laughing silently, too breathless to do anything else, and Zayn realises he's laughing as well. Harry's hair is all in his face, dripping wet, and his green eyes are bright and lively. They bump foreheads and Harry snorts, and Zayn worries that someone's face is going to break from smiling so much.

Eventually their giggles die down, replaced by short, ragged breaths, and the continuing thrash of the rain against the ground and the wind in the hedges. Still grinning uncontrollably, his whole body shaking with cold and adrenaline, Zayn rests his head back against the door.

"I should get to my place," Harry says at last, when he draws breath. He doesn't move.

"Yeah," says Zayn, holding him tighter. "Probably."

"Okay, okay." Harry carefully detaches their left hands from each other, his hair from Zayn's, his right hand from Zayn's hip, slides so that Zayn's right hand falls from the small of his back. He's too tall to stand in this overhang, shoulders hunched over, so he's almost crowding Zayn against the door. If they weren't both totally drenched before, they definitely are now. "I'm going. This is me leaving."

"Okay," snickers Zayn, pushing Harry's dripping hair back from his face out of instinct. Harry is made of sunshine in that moment, despite the fact that it's storming and late afternoon and the light is dimming. Harry is bright and happy and he makes Zayn feel like a bit of that is inside him.

"Okay," Harry says again, "wish me luck."

"Be safe," Zayn says.

"I'm just down the street.

"You're one of the clumsiest people I've ever met."

Harry pauses, as if mulling it over. "True. Watch me to my door to make sure I don't slip and crack my skull?"

"Sure," Zayn agrees. "I'll count you in."

"Okay," says Harry, yet again, and the glint in his eye shows Zayn he likes a challenge.

"Three," says Zayn. Harry braces his arms.

"Two," Zayn continues. Harry gives a little hop.

"One!"

Like that, Harry shoots off like a greyhound on the track, and promptly slips and falls. Zayn is actually worried for a second, but the other boy bounces back up, yells, "I'M OKAY!" and continues running. From there, he makes it all the way down the road to his door.

Laughing and waving to him, Zayn pushes his wet hair out of his eyes and goes inside. His mum will be mad about the puddles of water he's leaving behind with each step, but he'll worry about that later.

 

It storms so hard the next day that his mother refuses to let him go outside. "It's absolutely pouring," she says, as if he won't have noticed. "You're already set to have flu and die from last night, let alone if I let you go out and wander around in that all day. What will you do, anyway?"

Zayn shrugs a little bit. "Yeah," he mumbles. "Y'probably right."

So he sits in his room and draws for awhile; he draws a little comic in which the heroes are two boys with a legion of cat minions. Time passes. He goes and sits at the windowsill, stares out into the rain, and – there's somebody walking up their street, with an umbrella. He quickly gets to his feet and runs down the stairs, going to open the door.

It's not Harry; it's Anne. "Hi, love," she says, smiling at him. "Your mum in?"

"Yeah," he says, breathless from running (he hates running), and turns to go get her.

They talk for a few minutes and he pretends he's not listening too hard from at the top of the stairs, but he can't catch many of the words anyway. The moment Anne is gone, braving the weather again, he trots down into the kitchen and sits on a stool, waiting.

"Zayn," says his mum, gently. "You can ask me if you want to know what happened."

Zayn kicks out a foot, nicks her leg with his toe. "What happened, Mum?" he sighs.

"We're gonna go to their place for dinner tonight," she says, watching him carefully for a reaction. As such, he refuses to give one to her.

"Cool," he says.

"Cool," she repeats slowly.

With that, he stands up and goes back to his room.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon trying to find a pair of jeans that are nice but not dressy, to find a shirt he can wear without feeling like a loser or a geek or like he's at a formal occasion, and then trying to get his hair to swoop down in a way that makes it look like he didn't work too hard at it, and.

"Zayn," his mum calls up the stairs. "Time to go, you ready to brave this storm?"

The rain still hasn't let up. Zayn stares at himself in the mirror, takes a deep breath, and tears himself away. "Yeah, comin'."

At the base of the stairs, the girls and his mum are waiting. It doesn't surprise Zayn that his dad has decided not to come; they call goodbye to him before his mum pushes the door ajar and opens the umbrella.

There's a generally large amount of pushing and shoving for cover, with all five of them, and they make it to Harry's place very much not dry, but not soaked either. Zayn supposes you have to take what you can get.

Huddled up on Harry's doorstep, Zayn's mum knocks. There's a pause, footsteps, and the door swings open. "Come in, goodness, you're going to get soaked! It's good to see you."

Their mums smile and ask after each other as if they didn't speak only hours before, while Zayn and the girls shuck off their boots. As Zayn takes his coat off, a voice behind him says, "Want me to take that for you?"

He turns. For some inexplicable reason, he thought that seeing Harry here would be totally the same as seeing him out in the field or drenched in the rain. It's quite the opposite; Harry has obviously done his hair, and he's dressed a little more nicely (thank God, Zayn isn't the only one). The warm inside light emphasises everything in his face. His eyes are sparkling the same as always, though.

"Thanks, man, you don't have to – oh, uh," Zayn tries to say, as Harry takes his coat with a dramatic sweep of one arm and hangs it in a motion vaguely similar to a pirouette. There's a moment of silence.

Zayn starts to laugh.

"What?" Harry protests, grinning.

"You should see yourself," Zayn gasps. "Oh my god."

"It's good to see _you_ ," Harry counteracts, surprisingly genuine, and Zayn worries that his smile might be too wide.

"You too."

They smile at each other for a moment longer before one of Zayn's sisters awkwardly clears her throat. Zayn snaps back to reality and sets about making introductions; Harry is sweet and polite with everybody, friendly and warm. His hand finds itself on Zayn's elbow, and Zayn rests his own in the small of Harry's back, and it feels natural.

Zayn's sisters eventually file ahead up the hall. Harry pauses, looking at Zayn, expression difficult to read. Scrutinising gazes are amongst some of the many things that make Zayn slightly afraid, so he asks, "Is there something on my face, or?"

Harry shakes his head and scoops Zayn up out of nowhere, arms curling right around his waist and up his back. Making a noise in surprise, Zayn finds his balance on the balls of his feet and hugs Harry back around the shoulders. "Hi," he says, a mixture of confused and endeared.

"Hi," replies Harry. "It's still raining."

"I noticed," Zayn snorts. Harry laughs quietly.

"Hey!" calls a voice from down the hall. "Harry, are you coming back?"

"Yeah, hold on!" Harry lets Zayn go (for the most part; their hands never seem to separate as easily as the rest of them). "Come on, there's people for you to meet!"

Zayn tries not to hesitate, but he musn't do a good job. A frown spreads across Harry's brow.

"Sounds good," says Zayn, and clears his throat. "Yeah, sure."

Harry's mouth twists. "You don't look like that's good," he says, even more slowly than he usually says things. "Are you nervous?"

Zayn bites his lip, formulating a response that won't sound too insecure or too faked or –

Apparently Harry's gotten all the response he needs. "You'll be fine, I swear," he tells Zayn firmly. "They're mates of mine, they'll like you."

"Alright," says Zayn, fighting his uncertainty by keeping his focus on Harry's eyes. They're incredibly green. "Lead the way."

Harry gives him a quick smile and grabs his wrist, pulling him along a carpeted hallway and down maybe three or four stairs into a lower-set dining room. There's a long table and everything is warm colours, shades of red. His sisters and mum are already seated; there's Harry's mum, a tall man who must be his mum's husband, and a girl who must be Harry's sister. Further down, there's three other boys, all unfamiliar.

Leading him down to two free seats, side by side, Harry squeezes Zayn's hand in a way that's strangely reassuring. It's good to see that the whole table hasn't frozen in conversation since they walked in. Zayn can't cope with it when people stare at him.

He regrets tempting fate the next moment, because when Harry says, "Guys, this is Zayn," all three of the other boys are looking at him.

"Hi," he mumbles, a bit dry in the mouth. He's going through a checklist in his head; try not to seem too standoffish, try to make eye contact, try not to talk about superheroes too much or too loudly.

"Hi!" says one of the boys, who's bottle blonde and has a huge smile on his face and a huge helping on his plate. "I'm Niall, Niall Horan. Lovely to meet you."

"You, too," Zayn says. The other two introduce themselves quickly and a little bit over the top of each other – Liam Payne is the taller, broader one with a scrunchy smile and strong arms. Louis Tomlinson is smaller, but far louder, aggressive in a friendly way, and he tells Zayn that it's perfectly acceptable to forget his name because he's happy to go by "Your highness", "Your glory", and "Your worship."

"Good to know," Zayn says, after shaking his hand. "I'll keep those in mind for if I ever want to make us both look like gits."

All eyes go to Louis.

Louis grins. "Sounds good, man."

 

Dinner goes pretty well, considering. There's a few moments where the noise gets a bit much and Zayn sort of wishes he could leave for a bit, but in those moments, Harry will say something ridiculous or pull a silly face or laugh too hard at his own joke. It's almost as good as time alone. Zayn finds himself watching Harry for most of the time they're there. He'd feel weird about it, but Harry returns the favour, glancing at him in between words or over his hand or under his elbow during a strange sort of in-the-air arm wrestle with Louis that doesn't make any sense.

It's rowdy, maybe, it's a little fast-paced and a little loud, but Zayn doesn't hate it.

 

After they've eaten, Louis and Niall have to go fairly early ("They're walking home together," Harry murmurs into Zayn's ear, "cause Louis doesn't like Niall out at night by himself."), saying their goodbyes and their thank yous. Niall waves cheerily at Zayn; Louis says, "I expect I'll be seeing a lot of you, from now on," in a tone that would almost be suggestive if it wasn't such a normal thing to say. His eyes flick back and forth between Harry and Zayn several times. Zayn shrugs and grins for lack of a better response.

Liam hangs around a little longer than them – long enough for Zayn to talk to him more. He's really nice, possibly too nice, chattery and then suddenly bashful, outgoing and bouncy until he's eating his words out of nowhere. Zayn's instinct is to make him feel safer, make him feel at home, and Harry does it really well. They both laugh at things that make absolutely no sense to Zayn, but not in a way that makes him feel left out (just in the way that makes him wonder if they're quite alright).

 

When there's a car horn outside, Liam looks up like a dog who's heard another dog across the street. "That'll be me mum, best be off. Bye, Harry."

"See you, mate," says Harry gently, leaning across the table to give Liam a big bear hug.

"Thanks for dinner, Anne," Liam says, pushing his chair back in as he stands. Harry stands too and so does Zayn, though he's not sure if he should have or not.

"My pleasure, love," she tells him, "come again any time."

"Thanks," he says again, eyes turning crinkly as he runs a hand through his hair.

"We'll come see you off," Harry says, not an offer as much as a statement. His hand has sort of found Zayn's again, pressing more than holding. Zayn is relieved to know what he should do.

"Okay," says Liam, somewhat shyly. The three of them edge past the others at the table and up the stairs, and then down the hall to the door.

Once they're there, Harry gives Liam another hug, tells him to get home safe. "I will," Liam promises. He opens his arms to Zayn, but second-guesses himself. Zayn takes him up on it before he has a chance to fully retract the offer.

"Nice to meet you." Liam's voice is muffled in Zayn's collar, and yeah, it really was.

"You too," says Zayn, and means it. "G'night."

Liam disappears out into the pouring rain, coat lapels pulled up around his ears, and Harry watches him all the way out to the small silver car parked on the curb. Once he's sure he's inside, he closes the door, and smiles at Zayn, and Zayn smiles back because apparently he can't not.

"They're nice," Zayn tells Harry.

"I know," says Harry, not smugly, but happily, as though he can barely believe it himself. "We've all been friends forever, like, I met Louis in kindergarten, basically, and Liam and Niall in elementary school."

"I had a few friends like that," says Zayn, and his heart pangs terribly as he thinks of Danny and Ant. Harry makes an empathetic noise.

"Wanna watch a movie? I've got heaps of, like, really nerdy stuff that you'll probably like. Since you're a huge nerd."

"Hey," Zayn says, pretending to huff, but it hardly lasts.

 

By the time they go home it's late, and the girls are exhausted. So is Zayn, being totally honest. They watched Ironman, for possibly Zayn's millionth time, and there were points where he nearly fell asleep, which is saying a lot because he adores Ironman. They say goodbyes and Zayn rolls his eyes as he mimics Harry's ridiculous wave back at him, but he's also smiling, so he's not sure how effective the mockery is. He and the girls and his mum brace themselves, yet again, against the weather, and stampede back up to their house.

 

It's him and his mum left in the kitchen as he gets a glass of water before bed.

"So, you knew Harry?" his mum asks, deliberately casual.

Zayn takes a few more mouthfuls of water before he answers. "Yeah," is all he says.

"He seems like a lovely boy."

"Yeah," says Zayn again. "G'night, Mum."

Her voice is half-smile, half-sigh. "Night, sunshine."

 

The next day when Zayn wakes up, the rain still hasn't stopped. He's beginning to wonder if it ever will.

It takes him awhile to get out of bed, with the knowledge that he's got nothing to do dragging him down. He can hear the shower running on the other side of the wall, probably his mum, and the girls won't be awake yet. He puts on some music and stares at the ceiling for awhile.

The rain patters on outside, and the longer he lies there, the more he misses the city. It's too quiet and he misses Danny and Ant so much it aches, and he wishes that there was somewhere to go, something to do to take his mind off it, like there always _was_ back home, and –

There's a knock on the door downstairs.

"Zayn!" calls his mum. "Zayn, can you answer that?"

Heaving a sigh, Zayn pulls himself out of bed and glances in the mirror. His hair is a nightmare, and he's in the t-shirt he slept in. Whatever, he thinks, it's not like he's going on a catwalk. Pulling on yesterday's jeans, he goes downstairs and swings the door open, trying to find it in him to give a polite smile.

In an absurdly yellow raincoat, wind-and-rain-swept hair all over the place, Harry stands with an expectant smile. When he sees Zayn, it gets brighter, but also shyer. "Oh. I thought it would be your mum."

That sinks Zayn's heart considerably. "D'you want me to get her?" he asks.

"No, no!" Harry says quickly. "Wait, I mean. I love your mum, she's great. It's not that I don't _want_ to see her, obviously --"

"Harry," says Zayn.

"Sorry," says Harry immediately. "I actually came over to see you, is all."

Silence hangs over them for a moment. "Well," says Zayn, "you should come inside, you're really wet."

Harry does, and Zayn takes his coat for him, mocks Harry's motion from the night before. Harry is the first to laugh, expression bashful but not quite embarrassed.

"Is anybody else up yet?" Harry asks. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come so early. It's just, I." Here, he breaks off, and shrugs, kicking a foot.

"No, they're asleep," Zayn says, and his heart softens at the sight of Harry so nervous. "It's fine, mate. Honest, I'm glad to see you." He claps Harry's shoulder. "Come upstairs?"

They sneak up the stairs, giggling each time one of them makes it creak, their steps becoming more and more exaggeratedly tip-toed until Harry's shoulders are up to his ears and god, he's possibly the most idiotic person Zayn has ever seen. Zayn has also never met anyone who made climbing stairs fun, though, so.

"Who was it?" his mum calls through the bathroom door, as they reach the landing.

"Harry," Zayn replies. "He's still here."

"Hi, Mrs Malik," says Harry bashfully, casting his gaze to the wall opposite the bathroom even though they can't see anything. It's bloody endearing.

"Hi, sweetie," she replies. "Have you eaten? I'll be out in a moment, I'll make you boys some breakfast."

"Oh," says Harry. "Thanks, that'd be lovely."

Zayn glances at him and says, too quietly for his mum to hear, "You didn't eat breakfast before you came?"

Harry is pink now. "I, uh. No, I sort of. Woke up, 'n' got dressed, and thought I'd see if, you had anything planned, or."

"Mate, you're lucky I was even awake," Zayn snorts, and pushes his door open. Once he's done it, he immediately regrets it.

Harry has never been up to his room before; in fact, Zayn realises, Harry has never actually been into his house. His room is a complete pigsty, moving boxes everywhere and clothes scattered in the corner, and he's left a few comic books open on his bed, the ones he was reading two days ago and hasn't moved yet.

Harry doesn't seem phased by any of this. He walks in and gravitates immediately towards the window, peering out it until his nose is pressed against the glass.

"What?" Zayn asks, coming up behind Harry. He puts his hand on Harry's shoulder, and he's not sure why.

"You can see my house from here," says Harry proudly. "If you get at the right angle, I mean."

Pretending he hasn't already looked out at Harry's house, Zayn nods. "Yeah, I see it."

"That's so cool," says Harry giddily. "The others – Liam, Niall, Louis – they live, like, across town. When the weather's like this, I barely see them."

"They came over last night," Zayn reminds him.

Harry rolls his eyes. "That was for a special occasion, though. A new family, and all." He leans back from the glass, and his back fits neatly into the curve of Zayn's arm. "How'd you sleep?"

Taken aback by such a gentle question, and also by how Harry's eyes turn to his with little warning, Zayn answers, "Okay, yeah. Uh. You?"

"Fine, thanks." Harry leans in and, before Zayn really knows what's happening, they're hugging. Zayn lets his arms fall in the small of Harry's back, where it seems they're meant to be. "You look a little down, that's all."

"I'm alright," mutters Zayn. Lost as to what to do with all this unbridled affection from someone other than his mum or sisters, he pats Harry's back. "Um. Thanks, though."

"S'okay," says Harry, pulling back at last. "But, like. If you ever want to talk? Or something, I don't really know."

"Yeah," says Zayn, unable to hold the smile off his face. "You too, yeah?"

"Yeah," says Harry back, nodding. They stand for a moment, until the serious look on Harry's face finally cracks Zayn and makes him laugh.

"Let's go downstairs and see if there's breakfast," he tells Harry, so that's what they do.

 

Hanging out with Harry is so unstressful. Zayn doesn't feel obligated to get dressed or disappear to comb his hair or anything, and Harry seems able to entertain both of them with just about anything. It's so great, he hangs around all day. They talk about siblings and family and Zayn eventually finds himself telling stories of his childhood back in the city without feeling sad.

 

Just before dinner is when Harry sighs and looks out the window at the onslaught, which will not let up. "I better go home, Mum'll want me there for dinner. Plus, I don't want to impose."

"Okay," says Zayn, and adds, "Hey, I know we live, like, a few doors away from eachother, but we could. We could trade numbers, if you want?"

"Yes!" says Harry, like Zayn has cured a deadly disease or something. "Okay, hang on. Here." He hands Zayn his phone and, in turn, Zayn hands Harry his own. After entering their details, they go downstairs to the entryway. Harry flings his arms around Zayn's chest. Zayn is starting to get used to this, the intense level of contact that comes instinctively to Harry, and he's getting better at reciprocating without hesitation.

"I'll see you," Harry says.

"Take care," Zayn answers, and they smile at each other. A strange thought occurs right in the back of Zayn's mind, a thought about how much he likes smiling at Harry, seeing Harry smile at him. He feels like he could do it for hours.

Harry lets his hand drop and says, "Pray for me out there." Zayn laughs as he opens the door.

The water splashes inside, as if the village is flooding, and Harry takes off. Zayn watches him over, just to be sure, but he makes it in one piece.

 

His phone goes off in the middle of that night. Groaning, he rolls over and feels around in the dark for where it should be sitting on his bedside table. His hand finds it, but he manages to knock it to the floor. It gives an especially insistent ring.

Exhausted anger boils in Zayn's gut as he rolls onto his stomach to find it. He's still half asleep and he wants to be _full_ -asleep, thanks.

"What?" he growls, when he finally grabs it to answer it.

"Zayn?"

"What the hell, Harry?" Zayn demands, words slurring a bit. "It's the middle of the night."

"I know," says Harry.

Zayn starts to register the fear in his voice. "Are you okay, mate?"

"Kind of? I'm out in the field, you know, with the cats, right?"

Upon hearing that, Zayn sits up. "Harry," he hisses, "what are you _doing_ out there? It's, like, typhooning at the moment, bro."

"I know, but I thought of the cat? I was really worried because of her, and I wanted to know if she was okay, so I got out of bed 'cause I couldn't sleep and next thing I knew I was walking here."

For god's sake. Zayn is speechless for a moment. "Is she okay?"

"No."

That strikes Zayn like a cold blade. "What do you mean, no?"

"She's sick, I think. I can't tell, she won't let me get close, but she seems really unwell. Her leg looks all funny? And the kittens are mewling. I don't think I can cat whisper them." Harry's voice is higher than usual, panicked, and as Zayn tries to construct a response, he can hear how short Harry's breaths are.

"First off, babe, I need you to take some deep breaths. I'll count for you."

"Okay," says Harry weakly. Zayn does count, going through everything he knows about calming a cat and wondering how Harry could do it.

Once Harry's breaths are considerably deeper, Zayn asks, "Do you have a vet here?"

"Yeah," Harry replies. "He's across town, though, and he'd be sleeping."

Zayn closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, well, here's what you've got to do."

Harry soothes the cat, after a long while, until he can wrap her in his jersey and pick her up. "I've got her," he says, before cooing several soft things. Zayn hears a pitiful meow on the other end. "Her leg really doesn't look good, though."

"We'd better call that vet," says Zayn. "How would I get his contact details?"

There's a pause. "Uh," says Harry. "You know how to use a phone book, right? Like, I'm sure they weren't common in the city, but. There should be one in your house somewhere. Probably in the entry hall?"

Vaguely, Zayn remembers something his mum said to them all on the first day, about how the phone directory would be more useful here than it had been in the city. He "hmm"s and, reluctantly, pulls himself out of bed. "I'll go look. Keep her calm, yeah? Are the kittens with you?"

"Yeah, they're here. They're really unhappy, though."

"Try to keep them calm, too." Zayn runs a hand through his hair and pushes his door open. With a glance down both ways to make sure nobody else is up, he tip-toes down the stairs. It's harder than he thought it would be to navigate this house in the dark, especially as this is his first time trying to do it. He doesn't want to turn on a light because he knows that would wake his mum (she has some strange light-sensing magic; he doesn't even try to understand it) and so he pats the carpeted floor in some sort of confused search until his pinkie finger connects with something worn and hard.

"Found it," he whispers, propping the phone on his shoulder as he flicks it open. He can barely see a thing in this light, but he can make out the writing if he leans right down over the book.

Harry ceases his cooing at the cats for a moment. "Alright, um, flick to 'V' in businesses, for vet, and then, like, his name is Dr. Carter and he should be the only one there."

Zayn squints so hard he can feel his brain starting to hurt as he flips through the pages. There's 'R', and that's 'U' – he stops. "Okay. Okay, uh, Dr. Carter."

"Hang on," says Harry. "I don't know if I have anything to write it down with."

"Let me hang up," Zayn suggests. "I'll text it to you."

Clearing his throat, Harry murmurs, slightly shakily, "Can I call you back straight after?"

The vulnerability, the fear in his voice, motivates Zayn more than he thought possible. "Don't worry about it," he says firmly. "I'm coming out to meet you. You're just outside that field, right?"

"Zayn, it's soaking out here, you don't have to –"

"Call Dr. Carter," Zayn orders him. "I'll text you the number then come."

"Be safe," says Harry. Zayn hangs up.

 

He feels absurdly calm as he puts on his boots and his coat, considering he's going to walk quite a distance out of the house in the middle of the night and in the pouring rain without telling either of his parents. Shucking the hood of his coat up further across his face, he steps outside. 

It's just drizzling. He's so grateful. It's still wet; there are puddles everywhere and the trees are creating a steady stream of droplets almost equivalent to light rain, but out along the road he can only imagine how bad it would be to walk in the pouring rain and howling wind. He questions again how Harry even made it as far as he did.

The walk feels faster and longer than usual all at once. Things race by, but he also takes more note of them, and his pulse is raised considerably.

About two thirds of the way there, his phone rings. He quickly grabs it out, but seeing it's Harry, he relaxes. "Yeah?"

"Hi," says Harry breathlessly. "I, I had to wake Dr. Carter up, but he's driving out here now to pick us up. Are you on your way?"

"Nearly there," Zayn assures him. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I think she's sleeping. We should be fine."

"Great."

They stay silent for awhile as Zayn continues the long trudge. When he sees Harry, he lifts a hand, hangs up on the call. Harry looks around wildly and spots him, face breaking out into an anxious smile. He looks drenched.

"Hi," says Harry, as soon as Zayn is within hearing range. It doesn't sound like how he normally says it; it sounds harried, fragile. Zayn looks up at him and pushes his hair back from his face. Harry makes a gentle sound and closes his eyes.

"How is she?" Zayn peers into Harry's bundle of coat and cat. The kittens are all draped over each other, making it hard to see, but the mother cat's breaths are definitely short and a little wheezy. There's caking around her eyes and her front left paw is twisted in a strange way. It's being held separately, in a different fold of the blanket from where the kittens are, probably Harry's doing to keep her safe.

"Dunno," answers Harry, letting his head fall forward to rest on Zayn's shoulder.

Careful not to crush the cats between them, Zayn rubs his shoulders. "Are you cold? You're in short sleeves now."

Harry shrugs. "A little."

Almost on queue, it starts raining properly again. Harry ducks his head down, moving protectively to keep the cats from getting wet. It's so sweet, his instinct to protect them over himself, and Zayn feels a similar urge towards Harry. Pulling an arm out of his coat, he pushes it around Harry too, huddling them tight together.

"Thanks, man," says Harry, who's shivering slightly. "Dr. Carter can't be far away."

 

And he's right, the vet should be on his way, but Zayn grows steadily more nervous. The mother cat's breaths are growing sharper and sharper, her little chest huffing up and down. Harry can feel it too and he's more panicky than Zayn is, chewing his lip to pieces and shifting from foot to foot (although that's probably related to the cold, too).

The sound of a car engine is a huge relief. Zayn straightens, head scanning the road for it, and the high-beam headlights nearly blind him when they rise up over the hill. "Here he is."

"Thank god." Harry straightens, too, pulling up taller than Zayn is and holding up a hand in the air. The car pulls over across the road from them, and they run to it. Zayn doesn't even bother to look before they do. 

The man in the car has some greying hairs, and wears glasses, a Superman t-shirt, and plaid pajama pants. He might be in his mid-forties, but Zayn is bad at guessing. "Hey, Harry," he says, in the voice of someone who has known Harry for a long time. "And...?"

"Zayn, Dr. Carter," Harry introduces them. "This is the cat. She has kittens, uh, like I told you, so, they might be in the way, and..."

"Don't worry," says Dr. Carter, "can I see?"

Tenderly, Harry passes his jumper over to Dr. Carter and stands with his hands wound tight into Zayn's shirt. Zayn rubs his arm, soothing as he can be. It's still pouring, and his hair is plastered down his head and sort of in his eyes.

"We should take her back to my place," Dr. Carter decides. It could be just Zayn, but the doctor’s face looks uncertain. "I can't tell anything out here."

"Will she be okay?" Harry asks, as if he simply can't help himself.

"I hope so," Dr. Carter replies and gestures to the car. "You boys can get in the back."

They do, and then they begin the long drive back through town. Harry sits in the middle seat rather than on the other edge, so they carry the cats on both of their laps, and when Harry puts his arm around Zayn's shoulders, Zayn rests his head back against it.

 

It's when they get to Dr. Carter's that the tension gets too much. It's just like any doctor's waiting room, with little plastic chairs and a TV on the wall (currently switched off). If Zayn had to pick a difference, it would be the posters of animals around on the walls where normally warnings for the flu would be hung, and also the magazines all seem to sport dogs on the front covers.

Dr. Carter takes the cats into his surgery and asks, gently, if they can wait outside. Harry says, "Sure," but the moment they've gone, he collapses into a chair, putting his face in his hands.

Zayn cautiously sits beside him, goes to put an arm around him. The realisation sinks his stomach as he hears a soft noise, sees that Harry's shoulders are shaking. 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he says quickly, drawing Harry in. Harry resists, but only for a moment. Then he's nuzzling closer, burying his face in Zayn's chest, body shaking. He's definitely crying, even if he's trying not to, and it breaks Zayn's heart. All he can do is run his hands through Harry's hair and rub his back, assure him that the cat will be fine, it'll be okay, "you can cry if you need to, babe, but they'll be okay."

It's a long time before Harry stops, too exhausted to sob any more. He sniffles and croaks, "Sorry."

"Hey, no, don't be sorry," Zayn tells him, right away. "S'all good."

Harry doesn't move, so Zayn doesn't either, continuing to run one hand through Harry's hair, from his forehead to his neck.

 

Several minutes later, Dr. Carter comes out. Zayn looks up so fast he almost hurts his neck. 

Dr. Carter is smiling. "Good news," he says, and Harry gives a weak laugh-sob of relief. "She's twisted her ankle, it's not broken. Besides that, I'd say she's just got a cold. She would have been lying there a few hours in the rain, so her symptoms seem severe, but it's nothing a few days in a warm place with good food won't fix. I gave the kittens a check-up too, and they all seem to be fine."

"Oh, man," says Harry, sliding down in his chair and letting out a long breath. "Thanks."

"Not a problem, Harry," says Dr. Carter kindly. "You two should get some sleep. You're more than welcome to stay the night in our guest room, if you'd like."

"That'd be great," says Harry, at the same time as Zayn sighs, "I'd actually better get home."

"I can drive you," Dr. Carter offers. "I'm up now anyway, it's not a long way."

Zayn bites his lip. He wants to go home, definitely doesn't want to deal with his mum finding out he's not there in the morning, but he doesn't want to put anyone out. Seeing his hesitation, Harry speaks for him. "That'd be great, thanks."

 

Five or so minutes later, Harry comes outside to see him off. Dr. Carter jogs upstairs to check on the baby before he leaves. The two of them stand and wait for him on the pavement, under one of the many lamp posts lining the street. The rain has died down to a soft mist.

It's Harry who breaks the silence. "Thanks," he mumbles, shoulders high up to his ears. "Sorry for getting weepy on you."

"All good. I'm a crier too," Zayn admits, voice no louder than Harry's own. "'N', like, you were scared."

"Yeah," Harry breathes. "Yeah, I was." He looks up; there's something in his gaze, something pure and open and the smallest bit unsettling. Before Zayn can figure out what it means, Harry's hand slides up his arm, around to his shoulder blade. He takes a step forward. His breath puffs once, a whisper across the bridge of Zayn's nose, and he leans down. "I. I'm gonna...if that's okay."

All Zayn can manage in response is, "Sure."

And then they're kissing. It's warm and damp and jolting. Zayn leans back against the lamp post to take it in, because he's worried if he doesn't, his knees could give way. Harry almost chases him down, pulls their bodies closer together, and Zayn might give a tiny sigh at how it feels. Harry's fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

That brings Zayn back down to earth, somehow, and he pulls away. Not a lot, but enough to see Harry's eyes open, expression mixed and difficult to read.

He doesn't know how to say it, how to say anything, he even doesn't know what he would be trying to say, so he nudges Harry's nose with his own and hopes.

Harry steps back, shoves his hands into his coat pockets, and clears his throat, but then the door opens behind them.

"You ready to go, Zayn?" says Dr. Carter cheerily.

It feels impossible that what just happened isn't visible, that Zayn could look the same as he did prior to kissing Harry. Dr. Carter doesn't seem to notice a difference, though. Zayn wants to say _no, I'm definitely not ready._

Harry is already smiling, although somewhat strained, and waving them off. "G'night, Zayn," he says. Zayn nods and says "mm". It's not his most eloquent farewell.

 

The whole car ride home becomes the buzz under his skin. Dr. Carter doesn't try to make conversation, which is a relief, because Zayn's fairly sure he couldn't form a coherent reply. When they reach his house, he says, "Thank you," and lets himself in. Barely making it to bed, he flops down, wraps himself up in the covers and does the only thing he knows how to do when he can't process things. He goes to sleep.

 

Upon waking, the first thing he hears is the persistent pattering of raindrops on his windowpane. The next thing he hears is his mum singing downstairs. The third thing he hears is the sound of himself cursing quietly as he remembers the night before.

Bloody _hell_. He presses his palms to his eyes and tries not to panic. He proceeds to spend about half an hour trying not to panic. Once he's at last given up, knowing that he will panic at least a little bit, he gets out of bed and trudges over to the window. Harry's family's car isn't parked in their driveway.

God. God, he has no idea what to do. For a moment he considers phoning, but immediately discards the idea. He'd never be able to do it. He can't just phone people and talk to them straight without having had a second opinion, or –

Well, that's something to think about.

 

The downstairs hall is even more simple to navigate in the daylight than he remembered; he finds the phone book in an instant. Checking carefully to make sure no one sees him, he picks it up and returns up the stairs to his room.

The good thing about living in a little village is that there are only so many Payne families in the area. In his case, one. Their phone number is easy to locate, and once he has it, he spends a few moments breathing and thinking about what he wants to say, and then phones.

It rings a few times. He clutches his free hand into a fist and prays that it doesn't go to an answering machine, because he doesn't know how the hell he'd explain this to a family answering machine.

It picks up. "Hello, this is Karen Payne speaking."

She has a warm voice, very much a mum. Zayn can tell. "Hi," he says, and clears his throat. "Uh, I'm Zayn, I'm calling to speak to Liam?"

He's worried she'll ask for more information, or be suspicious in any way. It's quite the opposite; she seems nothing but excited. "Oh! You'd like to speak to Liam? That's wonderful, hang on, let me get him."

A clunk, and a muffled call in the background. Zayn fiddles with his bedspread and fixes his hair in the meantime.

"Um, hi, uh. You're, it's Zayn from Harry's, right?"

Liam sounds sleepy too, even though it's 11 AM, which makes Zayn feel better. "Yeah. Yeah, hi. I hope this isn't weird."

"Oh." Liam muffles what must be a yawn. "I mean. It's a bit weird, but not bad weird. Hi, mate, how are you?"

"I'm okay," says Zayn slowly. "You?"

"Just woke up," Liam answers, as if it wasn't obvious. "What's up?"

Zayn centers himself. He makes sure to sit comfortably and to breathe first. "Does Harry just, like, kiss his friends? Is he that type of bloke?"

"Jesus." Liam certainly sounds more awake now. "I mean, I don't know. Sort of?"

Zayn's heart sinks. Which it shouldn't, he reminds himself. "What does 'sort of' mean, exactly?"

"Well." Liam lowers his voice, tone embarrassed. "I mean. He's, like. Kissed my cheek before. Nose, too. Things like that. He doesn't tend to kiss Niall as much, but that's because Louis is always all over him, so. Yeah."

This is potentially the most uncomfortable phone call Zayn's ever had. "Okay, but like, proper kissing?"

"Not...not so far." Liam 'ahem's. "Not as far as I know."

"Right."

Some shuffling occurs on Liam's end.

"Look, uhm, I don't know if you want to tell me what happened," Liam begins. "But Harry just needs to talk things out. Whatever you want to know, you'll find out from him."

Great. Talking is definitely one of Zayn's strong points. He cuts off his own sarcasm and says, "Yeah, okay."

"And, like. Don't." Liam huffs. "Don't hurt him, yeah?"

"I'll do my best," Zayn answers. "Thanks."

"Sure." Liam pauses.

"Uh," says Zayn, feeling like it's kind of a jerk move to call and ask about Liam's friend and then hang up, "how was your day?"

"Oh," says Liam, sounding surprised but pleasantly so.

They talk for another half hour, about everything other than Harry, and then say cheery goodbyes. Zayn is only a few steps from where he started.

 

Zayn's family are decently used to his preferred sloth-like lifestyle and hence, don't act like anything is out of the ordinary when he comes down for breakfast at about one in the afternoon.

"Saved you some leftover chicken from last night," his mum tells him as he comes into the kitchen, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thanks," he says. He can't find his appetite.

 

After a few minutes of pretending to his mum that he's eating and enjoying the leftovers, he returns to his room. Calling Liam was...interesting, but he's not sure it was completely helpful. Mostly because they were both so awkward.

So, with that knowledge under his belt, he reasons that the best thing to do now would be to talk to someone who isn't shy.

The answer comes to him fairly quickly, and he starts to flick through the phone book again. Unfortunately for him, the name Tomlinson doesn't bring up any results. His next bet is Horan, and thank god, there it is.

He swallows and dials.

As chance would have it, it's Louis who answers anyway. "Hiya, this is the Horan household. I like the sound of that, actually. Niall, you should always say the Horan household on the phone. Cause, like, it's got so many 'H's in it."

"Yeah, I get it, mate," laughs Niall.

"Who's speaking?" Louis asks.

"Zayn," answers Zayn.

He goes on to clarify, but Louis simply says, "Oh." In a voice that Zayn can't read.

"Uh," he says.

"Well," Louis begins, slowly, almost frostily. "What?"

Over Niall asking who it is in the background, Zayn says, "I don't know. I needed someone to talk to so I called one of you guys because I thought you would be better at it than me."

Louis ignores that and instead addresses Niall. "It's Zayn. Ringing for advice."

"For Christ's sake," Niall scoffs. "Tell 'im if Harry wanted one of us he would have been hitting on one of us."

"He said –" Louis begins, but Zayn cuts in.

"Yeah, I heard."

"Let me talk to him," Niall insists, and Louis huffs a _fine_ and hands it over. "Hey, Zayn."

Niall at least doesn't sound as hostile. Zayn relaxes somewhat. "Hey, bro."

"I get why you're nervous," says Niall, apparently a man who prefers to get to the point, "but y' just gotta talk to him. Promise."

"You know what happened?" Zayn asks, slightly embarrassed.

"Hate to break this to you," says Niall, "but dating Harry is a bit like dating all of us."

Louis laughs. Zayn slumps his shoulders and laughs a bit too.

"I don't know what to say to him, though," Zayn points out.

"I'm fairly sure you'll know when you get there." Niall's voice softens. "Good luck."

"Uh." Zayn clears his throat. "Thanks."

"You're welcome!" calls Louis. Niall laughs again, and they hang up.

 

The next day dawns, and Zayn hasn't talked to or heard from Harry. One time he peered out his wet window and maybe thought he saw Harry's curtains open too, but it was just for a moment and could have easily been a deceiving raindrop.

He tries to draw, but his creative energies aren't there with him. He tries to read, but he can't stay focused.

 

The day after that, he gets up early, grabs their umbrella and his boots and his coat, and goes out into the rain for a long walk. He does some very intense thinking.

 

That afternoon, he walks down to Harry's, and knocks on the door. His hands might be sweating but he could easily pretend it's the rain.

There's no response. After a moment, he knocks again.

"Coming!" calls Anne's voice. Zayn bounces on the balls of his feet.

"Hi, Anne," he says, when she opens the door.

"Hello, Zayn," she says fondly. "Nice to see you."

Nodding, he says, "You too. Listen, is Harry home?"

"Not right now," she says, sinking his heart like a stone, "but he'll be home in a few minutes! Come in to wait if you like, I'll make you some tea. You look absolutely drenched."

"I feel absolutely drenched," he assures her, shaking himself and the umbrella as dry as they're going to get before stepping inside and shedding his raincoat and boots.

She leads him to the kitchen and sets about making tea. He sits near the counter and plays with the hem of his shirt, feeling the time tick by.

"So," he says, for the sake of conversation. And maybe his curiosity too, a little bit. "Where's Harry?"

"You'll see when he gets here," she says wearily, but affectionately. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with that boy."

"Yeah," Zayn agrees, "me too."

 

Zayn's almost finished his cup of tea when Harry appears in the doorway to the kitchen. He has the mama cat in his arms, her paw still bandaged, and the three kittens all around his feet. His gaze is down, laughing as he tells them to keep away from where he's going to step on them. 

"Hi, Mum, meet the family," he says, and looks up, and his face immediately changes.

"Hi, Harry," says Zayn, going for casual and sounding a little bit panicked.

There's a moment when Harry doesn't say anything back – when Zayn begins to worry he's not going to. But then – "Hey, Zayn." Harry bites his lip and gives Zayn an awkward, uncertain thumbs up. When his mum smiles and leans down to coo at the kittens, Harry mouths, "Are we good?"

God, Zayn's missed Harry, and it had only been a few days. He smiles and nods, gives him a thumbs up back. Apparently that's all Harry needs, because he relaxes, big broad shoulders relaxing. "Mum, this is Bert, and Emily, and Darcy, and their mum Sophie."

Sophie gives an exasperated meow and Harry sets her down on the floor. Her walking isn't quite confident yet, but Zayn feels more relief flood through him at the sight of her hobbling along. At least she's on the mend.

 

They spend about half an hour helping Anne to settle the cats in; setting out food and water, making sure the mum cat knows where the bed is. "She's litter trained, too," says Harry proudly. "We found out yesterday. So, we can keep her, right?"

Anne frowns, but turns and sees Harry's pleading face, Zayn giving her a hopeful smile on Harry's behalf, and caves in. "Yeah, alright. I s'pose we can."

Harry properly whoops, and jumps to throw his arms around Zayn. He seems to realise too late what he's done, but instead of letting him pull back, Zayn hugs him and gives a meager little, "Hooray!" into Harry's shoulder.

"Hooray," Harry replies, more a mutter.

"I'll just," says Anne, and doesn't bother making a full excuse before she leaves the room, and the cats, for whatever reason, all scamper after her.

It's just Zayn and Harry in the kitchen now. Zayn unwraps his arms from around Harry, and Harry puffs up his cheeks, expression a mix of hope and anxiety.

Silence rings in the room for a long moment. Neither of them seems to have a clue what to say.

"Look," Harry starts, and then carries on all in one breath, "I'm really, I wanted to say I'm sorry? But I'm not sorry. I asked first and I thought it would be okay, but if you don't want us to...if you don't want it to happen again, I won't do it again. We can still be friends, if you like. I'd really like that? If we were still friends, I mean."

Blinking a few times, Zayn tries to get his head around that. When he does, he realises that Niall was right.

Back in his room, even in Dr. Carter's car on his way home, Zayn didn't know how to feel or what to think. He was confused and disoriented and a little afraid. That afternoon he had more of an idea of what he wanted to do, but he still wasn't certain

It all changes with Harry actually there. He has never felt so sure.

"I went for a really long walk today," he says slowly, gaze not leaving Harry's face. "And I was thinking, about, like, what home is and stuff."

"Right," says Harry, like he doesn't get it.

"When I was fourteen I read this book," Zayn continues. "And like, in the book, this one character, named Rosanne, she was trying to figure out what home was. And she said that when you meet someone, sometimes you just click, sometimes it's like you've known each other forever, and like, she was in space? I forgot to say that, she was like, it was a sci-fi book, so she's out there in space meeting different people in the universe and she said that sometimes meeting someone can almost be like coming home."

"Right," says Harry again, but more like he understands this time. He pauses, breathes, and steps closer to Zayn, as if he's worried Zayn will step away. Zayn doesn't.

"I've missed home less and less since I met you," Zayn tells him, and there. That's it.

Harry rushes in like he's been waiting all his life, hugs Zayn so tight his ribs might break. It's warm and safe and Zayn never wants it to go away, so he hugs back just as hard.

"I'm glad," Harry says, honest and fierce. "I would hate for the kittens to have to be in shared custody."

It takes him a moment, but then Zayn starts to laugh. He laughs so hard he can't breathe, nuzzling his face into Harry's neck, and no one so ridiculous has ever made him laugh this much.

"No," he snorts. "No, that would be terrible."

 

(When they next see Liam and Louis and Niall, they're all insufferable about how it was _their_ advice that made the whole thing work out. Zayn is glad to have friends like them.)

 

Zayn ends up staying the night, to help Harry with the kittens. It involves a lot of getting up in the night to check on them and make sure they're okay and clean up any mess, so he doesn't get an awful lot of sleep -

(Of course, it's only partially the cats. They get him up, but then Harry distracts him with a song or a cup of tea or a joke he just remembered or a hand grasping his own, and they always take longer than they meant to to get back to bed)

– and when he gets up for the last time, the sun is rising.

"Harry," he says urgently. "Harry, look outside!"

"What?" Harry growls, rolling over in the duvet and palming his eye. His hair is absolutely all over the place and his eyes are droopy.

"It's not raining," says Zayn. "It's a clear sky."

Harry squints at him. "For real?"

"For real." Zayn laughs. "I swear I've read this happen in a book."

"You've probably read enough books to foretell the rest of humankind," Harry mumbles. "Come downstairs, I need you to cat whisper for me."

"Okay," says Zayn, and lets Harry tug him away from the window by their entwined hands.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at gentlezayn.tumblr.com !!  
> [animal injury warning]


End file.
